


After the Ashes Have Settled

by ergo_existence



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, carelessness for death, soul-mate AU, spurred by falling-in-love-with-fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-18 22:33:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2364443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ergo_existence/pseuds/ergo_existence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lead the rebellion</p><p>we do not conspire<br/>with the orthodox here</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Ashes Have Settled

**Author's Note:**

> O muse struck me so. Comments are absolutely appreciated. I should also note that in a similar way sex education is often muddled with misinformation, the idea of 'soul-mates' fall under that category. It's something very common and natural but still suffers from facts not spread correctly, so that sort of plays into it, if only a bit.

1.

How many times has Agent Washington heard the word _no_?

Let him count the _ways._

It’s ridiculous. It’s this word – this demeaning, this teasing, this _this this_ annoying word – that sits, nestled right on his collarbone, left side, beside a particularly large sun spot and the constellation of his freckles. Supposedly, as the knowledge went, that’s what his soul-mate will say.

 _Soul-mate_. It’s a word that says so many things. _Your love is divine_. _Your love is a cosmic joke_ ; Wash can _hear_ the universe cackling in the distance. Of all the superstitions and myths that could be true, it had to be this one.

And it had to be _no_.

See, it’s also not exactly a spiritual matter. As far as he understood, it was a biological reaction, a kind of survival instinct, guttural act to continue humanity. Sometimes here and there it didn’t happen, didn’t work, or wasn’t exactly meant for making kids, and for _centuries_ people were cast as godless fiends; as those who have been cursed loveless, lifeless.

Wash is lucky for the era he lives in.

Now how the language part came into it, he didn’t know. Something about the power of word, of hearing, of the knowledge of Things That Be. ‘Soul-mate’ was a questionable idea on its own, let alone figure out the reasoning behind it.

He never wore it proudly.

“ _No_ , huh?” one spacemarine had once noticed, upon a ship – amongst the many – Wash had grown up on. “That sucks.”

“Yeah,” he’d replied. What can you say to that? Can you say, _yeah, what a joke._ He had said it once. The response— _you’re a joke_.

So he definitely doesn’t do that anymore.

“Mine’s _baby, listen_. It’s kinda retro, I think.”

Wash didn’t reply, just looked away. It had to happen whilst he was waiting for his father, didn’t it.

“You’ll be okay.”

Consoling words.

So that’s _no_ for him. _No_ from family, from strangers, his heart skips everytime; what if it’s somebody too old for him? _Dead_? What if it’s a teacher or a tutor or a _fucking dog that learns to talk_?

As he gets older he worries less, and by the time he’s joined the UNSC and been, _fate be damned,_ joined Project Freelancer, _no_ has vanished from his head. Mostly. He pretends it has. (Maybe, also, it’s reckless and stupid joining up in an experimental special ops program so young, maybe he’s not sure if this world has been fair on him all along the way and he says, well, fuck it).

\--

“Nice. Didya write that in marker on yourself, Wash?” York asks him, a few weeks after initiation. It’s in their locker room or maybe the showers, or—was it Wash’s room when York stormed in talking about the Wyoming versus Connie showdown in the breakroom? Wash was shirtless, anyway. Which he doesn’t like.

“No,” he says, petulantly, and inwardly swears at himself for _saying_ the word, but it’s usually unavoidable. It’s easy, casual.

“Oh.” York’s stoutly surprised. “Really?”

“I would choose to have ‘no’ as my mark, sure,” Wash says flatly. He tries, with anxious haste, to find a shirt to cover it. He does it with trembling hands.

“Hey, Wash, c’mon.” York hasn’t moved from the doorframe. “Mine’s ‘ _Ugh, not you again’_ , so don’t worry. It took me awhile too.”

This time Wash says, “ _Really_?” and for a moment he thinks York’s a lot better than a cocky smartass.

“Yup. Lady in Blue said it to me a bit before you arrived.”

“Carolina?”

He _mhmms,_ then “Yep,” and seems to be moving out of the room, until he adds, “Hurry up. You’ll miss what’s going down.”

Wash lightly laughs.

It can’t be so bad, can it?

\--

South laughs at him.

She _laughs_.

It’s because of the shirt. It’s old and stretched wide and _it_ shows, bare, exposed, vulnerable. But he didn’t plan on leaving his quarters on this particular break they’ve been given—call it melancholy, except he’s allowed an excuse here to blame everything biological and chemical for gifting him _no_ so he’s not sad. Moping. ( _That’s worse)_.

So he’s out in the tiny kitchen they’re afforded. It’s not much, though an excellent trade-off for being exclusive to the Freelancers. _Who he thought all had left for shore leave_.

“Are you for real?”

“It’s not that _funny_ ,” he says, over what would be a nice sandwich but it’s sort of ruined now.

She’s in worse clothing than he, looking to be something of North’s, maybe, telling from the length of the jumper that must fit his height.

“It is.” South chortles meanly again. “What a sucker.”

“Yeah. I know. Thanks for reminding me, I forgot to mark it on the calendar.”

“Oh, Wash, you’re such a baby,” she says between snatching the bread from the plate, sitting on the bench forgotten as Wash stood there, vacant. She takes a bite then, “Did you put fucking _jelly_ on this?”

“I like it.”

“Ugh. You’re worse than North.” She spits it out into the sink, runs the water to wash it down. “He puts fucking _salami_ and _pickles_ together. It’s the saltiest shit I’ve ever had.”

“So don’t steal sandwiches.”

“We’re not having a _moral lesson_.” Sometimes Wash wants to be just as caustic as her, but, well, he can’t pull it off as well just yet. “How many times have you thought you’ve found them?”

She says this more quietly. She says this softly. It’s unlike her usual demeanour and, for a moment, Wash has to gather himself again.

“Never.”

“Never?”

“Wasn’t ever that, y’know,” he says, sighs, and leans on the edge of the counter. The hum of the _Mother of Invention_ is all that soothes him then, the soft blue lights, the window that showed the expanse of planets, stars, meteors. “Feeling. In my gut.”

“You’ll probably faint, I bet.” There’s snark again and Wash hears her rummage through the cupboard and come out with what looks to be tinned sausages. She leaves with a fork and tin opener. “Later, loser.”

He huffs.

\--

North finds out, and that’s just because of the nature of where they change. Maine. Carolina, eventually, who teases him the least about it. There’s not a Freelancer left that hasn’t said something about it, because _socially_ it’s just a discussed thing, it’s like asking about the _weather_ sometimes, because you can’t control it, so big deal.

Except for Wash it really stinks because sometimes he’s scared the butterflies or warmth or _whatever_ hasn’t worked and he’s already met his soul-mate, and he’s off wandering the galaxy with no _idea_ of who he’s supposed to be tied to. Then he wonders if it really matters.

Because it doesn’t always work out, does it?

\--

It doesn’t.

He knows that when his mind is almost split in two and Epsilon explodes in his mind and he wonders why the Director didn’t remove their marks after Connie and he wants to know _why Allison had to die why did it had to end this way why did she have to leave_

That’s when he thinks _no, no, no_ —it’s not his mind saying that.

And somehow, _somehow_ , ‘no’ is his saving word, the part that cools the heat and roar of Epsilon, the one that says _you are Agent Washington_ and splices through it, splices through the terror and lets him lie, lets him hide the memories and knowledge of the atrocities. The plural of _atrocity_ because what has been _done here—_

 _No_.

He tells the Director nothing was left behind after Epsilon. Just that he should be more careful with his testing next time.

 _No_.

Agent Washington is cleared for duty.

\--

It’s funny how many times he hears the word after that. It desensitises him from it. _No_ is, and always will be his saving grace (how he had gone through a metamorphosis) on his flesh it was his—but now?

There is no space for it. He is focused and intent on retribution, on fixing this puzzle, on separating self from body so that he is less concerned, more in-place and in-mark to _work_ and forget soul-mates—

—because Epsilon leaves behind a crater in his mind that, if it had a position physically, was nestled on his collarbone.

\--

When you learn to be stoic, learn to be a shell that can’t be cracked, practise the way you hold yourself, you learn death is nothing, nothing is a blanket that envelopes you.

He is not afraid because he says _yes_ to himself when he parades into the heart of the Freelancer facility and decides there is a great width between _yes_ and _no_.

He hopes his soul-mate is all right.

\--

Sometimes he really wants to know what life is up to. Does it giggle?

Agent Washington is still alive and his entire body has been sucked into a vacuum and he _has nothing to lose now._

He probably doesn’t even have a soul-mate. If they did, they would turn away, because he must be disgusting.

He doesn’t regret it, God no. Not then. He shoots and hits the skulls of those he needs to and travels through desert for this so one day he might be on a planet with a house, a human colony, and he can tell the universe to fuck off because it’s done him in so many times over.

\--

It’s not laughing at him, he figures out.

It’s _weeping._

\--

They’re really, really, really dumb. He can’t _believe_ it. They take him in like a stray cat, except it’s a stray cat that managed to get a hold of a gun and _shoot their teammate_ and set off an EMP that _killed their leader_ and he wears the _armour_ of Epsilon and he’s not dead but, on paper, Agent Washington is KIA.

Talk about irony.

( _He should be dead_ ).

Agent Carolina returns and he wonders who cried for Agent York.

2.

The thing about the crash is that descent is felt, gravity gives way ( _the alarms ring and it’s not his fault no way_ ) and then it lands.

Landings hurt.

Tucker’s the first person he calls for. He was at the front of the ship, as far as he can remember, and he might breathe a sigh of relief when he finds him. Caboose pops up with a ‘That was fun can we do it again?’ in his tone that sometimes ran bells at the back of Wash’s own mind.

“ _Shit_ ,” Tucker swears, taking Wash’s hand where he’d gone and hidden under one of the tech’s desks. They were dead. “How the fuck are we still alive?”

“Don’t ask me,” Wash says, because that’s a greater question that takes a long analysis. A very long one.

He smells smoke.

“We need to get out of here,” he says, once Tucker is up, with urgency.

“No way. I didn’t guess.”

“Sarcasm even now. Thank you, Tucker.”

“Anytime. Call me on 1-800-f-u-c-k-u.” He spells out each letter and Wash is ready to do the exasperated leader act that comes _naturally_ to him, though the need to get them to safety overrides it. _Slightly_.

Sprinklers go off and from what Wash can assume is a fire (height plus big ship plus drop equals fire) mustbe put out and he’s thankful for it, if they were a little slow, and he’d be very happy then if Tucker wasn’t grumbling about the water.

“Ugh. Water on this suit _sucks_.”

“Complain one more time and I’m leaving you behind in here.”

“We should get a pool!” Caboose helpfully adds.

They do make it out and Sarge meets up with them, his never-faltering bravado grating on Wash’s nerves.

They’re all alive.

\--

By the time they’ve been in the canyon for a month, he’s ruminating on the _no_ on his shoulder again. He’s learnt a thing or two about friendship and how craters can be overcome—

—but he just can’t shake the two letters on his collarbone.

It mocks him. _No_. What if it’s said like, _no, I don’t want you_. Or _no way_. Or something equally negative? Something terrible. He’s never had good luck, like the Reds and Blues – he’s been tossed left and right and this is _it_ , Epsilon and _no_ and Project Freelancer and the youthful devil-may-care behaviour that spurred his joining in the army, the family tradition.

How it could be for the others, the other Reds and Blues, he doesn’t know. And he doesn’t _want_ to know, if it’s not brought up then he doesn’t need to think about it.

He’s more skilled now with hiding and nobody sees it. Then, with the precaution of a Freelancer, he borrows a bit from York’s comment and takes the permanent marker of Caboose’s, that he’s apparently hoarded since Blood Gulch, and makes sure to mark out _no_ every day. It’s a black square as neat as he can fit, pretending it’s a tattoo that’s been coloured over.

It is, if it’s seen in one respect.

\--

Caboose, in his tactful way, says to Wash, “My star-mate is Church.”

For all the replies Wash can think of he settles on, “It’s ‘soul-mate’, Caboose.”

“Yes. Soully-mate. Yes. It is Church. I am very sad he left.”

“Well,” he tries, fails. Then, “Where is it?”

“Where is what?” Caboose’s way of phrasing questions always left Wash a little off kilter. He persists.

“Your mark.”

“I don’t have one!”

“You don’t?”

“No, no,” Caboose says. “Soul-mates are who you _choose_ Agent Washington. Don’t be silly.”

“No, they’re—” Wash sighs.

Caboose sends his mind haywire, later. He knows it, _he knows how soul-mates work_ , but on the off-chance, _on the off-chance he can choose_ , would he choose somebody? If he had a choice. If he could say, _I love you_ anyway, despite, none of the above?

He doesn’t settle on an answer, that night.

\--

They’re on that topic again. This time it’s the Reds and Blues gathered together on what would be night on this nameless planet, a small fire going that Sarge and Caboose managed to put together (Sarge insisted they do it the way it’s done in the wilderness).

Wash insisted it be done only a few feet from the Blue base, so in the event of a dangerous and/or life-threatening situation he has access to his armour behind cover. He’s giving it a rest for one day.

Not like he’s scared of _death_. He just wouldn’t like it very much if the others died.

“ _My_ soul-mate, well, apparently they’re gonna say _I like your blood orange scarf_ and I really think I already like my soul-mate,” Donut says, enthusiastically, holding up his forearm for the others to see where the words were imprinted.

Sarge grumbles.

“What about you, sir?” Simmons asks, eyes wide and bright, reflecting the flickering flame. He sits opposite Wash and Tucker, hunched over.

“ _You need a new shotgun_ ,” he edges out, accent thick and heavy. “I might just show them what a shotgun looks like.”

Wash sighs, as he is – as it goes – wont to do on this topic. Tucker notices this beside him and with one dark thick eyebrow that seems to be made for the sarcastic lilt it does, he raises it.

“’Sup?” he says, voice not low but discreet enough.

“Nothing.” Wash is _not_ going into it. Not now. Not ever, actually.

“That’s what you _always_ say. Is nothing, like, code for _everything_?”

“No,” he says, and fakes a cough because that still gets him off guard, sometimes. He should have a witty response or _something_ better, but he distracts himself by watching Simmons and Grif argue.

“Yours is _so dumb_ ,” Grif says, staring at his own left wrist. “ _And_ I have to stare at it everyday. God. What a fucking nerd.”

“I didn’t get to choose it!” Simmons screeches. “You know that!”

“Pfft. _Right_.” Wash is waiting for the climax of the minor tiff. “Can I read it out loud? Actually, why am I asking? It’s _my_ arm, so—”

“ _Grif!_ ” It ends with Simmons covering Grif’s mouth.

“Dirtbag,” Sarge mutters, seemingly too tired to further any assault on Grif for the evening. It’s almost endearing, Wash muses.

“Do you think soul-mates always…meet?” Wash asks Tucker tentatively. He’s not sure why. In fact, he should be quiet. He sighs, running his hand across what his mind classifies as grass but could be anything.

“No way. I mean, the chances, right? Billions of fucking humans with some that don’t get shit and some die, soul-mates mean jackshit.” Tucker sounds bitter. Wash knows what bitter is.

“Did yours—?” He gestures with his hand, like _did they die._

“No.”

Wash, hand over his heart, waits—and nothing. Tucker continues, “But it’s a stupid fucking phrase they’re gonna say if they do, and I _hope_ they’re dead. Idiot. Whoever they are. Probably really dumb.”

“Yeah.” He chooses to stand then and go to bed. He says to Tucker something like, _you should go too._

And he thinks he goes by himself except footsteps echo behind him on the steel of the hallway and he’s full of adrenaline—

“Dude, calm down,” is what he hears and it instantly soothes him. In the darkness he can make out the outline of Tucker. “It’s just me.”

Wash doesn’t say anything. He turns around.

“Hey uh,” Tucker begins and seems to pause, so Wash waits diligently. He knows what it’s like to be tongue-tied and he’s _trying_ to be a good leader. “This is gonna sound really weird.”

“I’ve seen a lot. Try me.”

“Can I sleep with you?” Tucker actually _trips over his words_ then, starting and stopping a sentence, “I mean like _not like that_ for once, oh shit, I mean just Caboose is _really_ annoying and he keeps waking me up and if you’re gonna make me do _fucking laps_ —” Tucker’s confidence picks up here “—then I want to actually get some sleep. So uh, yeah.”

Wash inhales and exhales. “You’re actually being honest, aren’t you?”

“Ugh,” Tucker groans, and he starts to retreat. Wash decides then he’ll be met with heightened whining tomorrow if Tucker doesn’t sleep well, and he’s a _leader_ , so.

“Okay. Fine.” He watches Tucker stop. “But I’m not the one who made a big deal about it.”

“Yes, you did! You were all Freelancer sighing and looking at me all dramatically.”

“Freelancer _sighing_? Is there a particular way you’ve observed Freelancers breathe, Tucker? Tell me your hypothesis. I want to see the variables.”

Tucker might just protest and leave then, instead he trails behind Wash down the dilapidated hallway, charred, and he thinks Tucker’s going to drag in his camper bed.

“Okay, when I said _Caboose kept waking me up_ I mean he kept putting mustard in my sheets.”

Wash doesn’t know what to say. Really.

“It’s kind of a…nervous habit.”

He’s halfway to taking his shirt off when he remembers the scribbled out word and decides against it.

\--

“Still can’t believe you got the captain’s quarters. You’re not a captain,” Tucker comments, not asleep. Because apparently he takes a while to sleep and he’s keeping Wash awake. When he can drift off he does.

He just can’t now.

“Seriously. This bed is _huge._ How did you have this to all yourself?”

“Can you go to _sleep_? You’re saying Caboose woke you up and I can’t even _go to bed myself_.” Wash is on his back because Tucker kept kicking the back of his thighs. It’s the only time where he hates the fact Tucker is shorter than him.

“I can’t fall asleep yet. I gotta wait like, forty minutes. That’s usually how long it takes for Caboose to shut up.” Tucker rolls his shoulders, laying on his stomach.

“What does he talk about?”

“Church. Church, and some more Church.”

“Nothing about Freckles?”

He receives no response from Tucker, except for him to roll over to the other side, back facing Wash.

Wash is about to fall asleep until he wonders if Caboose came back to base safely. “Damn it,” he mutters to himself as he leaves the warm bed—he finds, moments later, Caboose asleep on the ground outside, Donut waiting patiently.

“I didn’t want to move him.”

He almost smiles.

_He’s not guilty._

\--

The thing is, having somebody in his bed each night shouldn’t be so nice. The first thing Wash should’ve done is find some spare sheets and tell Caboose mustard, in fact, doesn’t go in the sheets. Or anywhere outside the room the bottle is contained in.

“Hey, Wash?”

He looks up from the radio tower. Tucker’s out of armour and he’s completely ready to point out _careless_ it is to wander outside without his suit.

“You comin’ to bed? Or are you just gonna stay out here and then come in and collapse later and wake me up?”

Wash doesn’t ever intend for it to be this _domestic_. He also points out, eloquently, that often it’s the reverse.

Though he does get up and ask why Tucker was so concerned.

\--

(Wash laughs right back in the universe’s face.

He’s never been one for the rules).

It begins as so:

“Good night, Tucker,” Wash will say politely.

“Night,” Tucker will respond.

That will be the cue for Tucker to cuddle up against Wash’s back.

i.

Tucker’s never been so concerned with his mark.

It’s worse than _anything_ because it falls into that category of ‘Holy Fuck That’s Never Going To Happen, How Nonsensical Is That’. The likelihood of somebody saying a phrase like that – it’s two words put together that don’t make sense, in any context he can concern himself with. Like, it’s _goddamn fucking stupid_.

“Fucking schmuck,” is Church’s opinion on it. He brings it up the next day after averting his gaze from Tucker’s shoulder blade the previous day. Evening? Blood Gulch really screwed up his body clock.

“Yeah? What’s yours then?”

“We’re not doing this.”

“I could ask what the Reds are up to again.” Church _still_ has the sniper rifle and they’re on the same cliff, as their routine of late went.

“Okay, okay, _fine_ ,” Church replies in that fast, angry sort of tone. “It’s _goodbye_. Are you happy, you stupid fucker?”

“Yeah. That’s pretty bad too.” Tucker smirks behind his helmet. “Guess we’re both outta luck.”

“Well you know how they work, right?” The sniper lowers. “It’s not like love-at-first-sight or anything shitty like that.”

“It’s not?”

“What the fuck have you been taught? Jesus, next I’m gonna have to teach you about the goddamn birds and the bees.” Church sighs. “Bury me when that happens, would you.”

“Yeah, I’ll have a funeral for you and everything.”

“So did you think this whole deal was like…some sorta thing where you gotta settle for the person that says some shit the first time they meet you, then links you biologically or whatever?” Church turns to him.

“Maybe.”

“Well that’s a common misconception—” Church’s voice gains that _I’m smart and I’m going to explain why with this pitch_ “—because y’see, it’s not _exactly_ like that, always. Kinda like it’s not always a guy and a girl, you know with aliens and shit you’ve got some inter-species stuff. Which I’m not going into, either.”

“So where are you going with this?”

“ _Tucker,_ seriously. Don’t think you’re just gonna get lumped with somebody straight away.”

“I never thought that.”

“Yes, you did. With a mark like yours that’s that dumb—which suits you, by the way—it’s probably gonna be someone who you won’t figure out straight away.”

Tucker strains his eyes over to the Red base.

“C’mon, buddy. Don’t get all sad. Are you crying?”

“Shut the fuck up, Church.”

“I thought we were having a bonding session.”

\--

If Tucker were completely honest, Church _did_ actually help. If he’s gonna have a mark on his back deemed by starry lovey dovey bullshit, why should he worry? It’s in his _nature_ to not worry. Worrying is for people like Simmons. Who make him look more handsome when in the same room.

Caboose asks about it, though, after the rookie arrives. He cusses to himself when it happens.

“Hmm,” Caboose says, thinking. “That’s a nice name.”

Tucker doesn’t even want to _deign_ him with an answer.

“Yes. I like that name very much.”

“Okay, Caboose, what are you trying to say?”

“Come on Tucker, you should have figured this out.”

“All right, Caboose. You’re way smarter than me.”

He doesn’t blame anybody for it. He doesn’t _want_ to, but if he _could_ blame somebody for the damning phrase, marked into his skin, then it’d be Caboose. Because Caboose is drawing attention to it and making it worse.

At least with Church he didn’t examine it too closely.

\--

When you’re somebody like Lavernius Tucker—a guy in space who joined because of very vapid reasons Church weaselled out of Tucker because when you go from thinking ‘entire squad of possibly hot people’ to ‘canyon of fucking losers’ it’s kind of detracting to admit why you signed up—well, you eventually kinda forget things.

Especially dumb things.

He relaxes and settles his shoulders, doesn’t tense them. When he’s blown up by a rocket? Oh, oh he doesn’t mind then. He just hopes his supposed other-half isn’t too worried.

But hey, he’s fine, in the end.

ii.

He could meditate on it, maybe, in the desert. The sand that blew, the winds that picked it up and that possibly had layers and layers of dead bodies underneath, home for those forgotten out here. Except he’s supposed to be a diplomat and do his job, though he’s been given the shit stick and he’s locked up in a temple.

The only people he has to rely on are his old teammates.

His luck has always ensured he’s lived, but really, he doesn’t like the odds the others bring.

\--

Oh, he does sometimes wonder if maybe the alien who was the—father?—of Junior was _maybe_ his soul-mate, because _honk honk_ could mean all kinds of things. Except he kinda knows if it was the alien, he’d have known. And he’d have run, anyway.

Running is just what he does.

\--

For how common the topic should be, he doesn’t know the Reds’ marks. He knows Church’s but there seems to be some tiny truce, for all that they share, this was what wasn’t betrayed. Some boundary that remained, and in all truth Tucker did not mind one bit. If his soul-mate was still kicking around out there, well, he doesn’t want the Reds to turn their heads when the words are uttered.

That is, if he finds this person.

(So maybe his flirting is half because of what Tucker _wants_ to do—

—and half because he might finally find this fucker).

iii.

He is the lackadaisical soul-mate—Tucker, well, he’s given up being covert. Not that he ever fooled himself into thinking he was covert, but even so. When there’s the Meta, when there’s the Director, when Caboose decides to take in this guy-who-almost-killed-them (which in all honesty Tucker thinks is _kinda_ bad-ass and good for the team, because competition with the Reds was a thing), he just doesn’t give a shit.

Really. He’s fucking around in space and his soul-mate is probably working an office job.

Agent Washington is, in fact, a bad-ass—also a guy who thinks he has some duty and responsibility to look after the team. What an idiot. And he’s supposedly met the Church-Church, like, original Church, so he must’ve known what a good leader Church was.

The strangest thing is that Epsilon doesn’t know Tucker’s mark. _It just didn’t come up_.

And maybe he prefers it that way.

iv.

He knows Epsilon and Alpha are _sorta_ the same, because they bust him out and shit and he still complains like a little fucking wuss because _oh we bothered to come get you out of this fucking Freelancer facility asshole_ , but no, there’s always something deeper, always something like _goodbye_. Church had gone from ‘slightly obsessed with ex-girlfriend’ to ‘my entire existence is centred around her’ which apparently _wasn’t_ just exaggeration, but still, he was bearable in Blood Gulch.

Except for whatever it is, Epsilon doesn’t know the burning phrase on his shoulder blade and—yeah, he’s glad.

Caboose has never had a mark but Tucker thinks it might have been Ɛ.

\--

The crash doesn’t scare him. He just hides, because that’s what he does best. And maybe some small part of him is clinging to the fact Agent Washington will find him and, well, _save him_ or something like that, because he’s done an okay job so far.

He might even trust the guy a bit.

Agent Washington offers him a hand.

\--

First of the things Tucker notices about Agent Washington without his armour on: the dude is _hot_. Like, _hot hot_ as in Tucker would bang him without any questions and lewd comments, because _shit_. He’s got this blond hair with a bit of a flop at the front going on and he’s ripped but in like a _lithe_ way and Tucker isn’t sure if he wants to be him or do him.

Except he likes being black and not a motherfucking pasty Freelancer with _freckles_ etched here and there which made him look way too young, though coupled with the ever-present bags under his eyes it evened out.

Seriously. Second thing Tucker wants to do is tell the soul-matey shit to fuck off so he can have Wash all to himself. (So maybe it’s sexual at first.

But the mustard in the sheets _really_ make him just want some actual sleep, thanks, Caboose).

\--

There are some things that just stick. Words and phrases for no good reason—objects that stand out in your memory like a post in the sea, the ocean of Things Remembered, and they never make any sense. But this does. That meagre conversation with Church, that consolation he somehow offered – Tucker knows Church is not one for consolation – was something that always poked out in Tucker’s peripheral memory.

It also might be because, well, Epsilon never would say anything like that _now_ , and that’s either growth or devolution, Tucker doesn’t know ( _or pointedly the difference between_ Ɛ & ɑ). Whatever.

So maybe he halfway hopes Wash might be, well, the one that’ll say something like the two little words on his back.

When Wash utters Freckles, though, that evening—he knows it’s not _exactly_ as the phrase goes, but still.

He gives up hoping. Who needs emotional shit like that?

\--

The funny thing is, he wonders why soul-mates are needed when he droops an arm over Wash in the early morning. Surely nothing could be better than _this_ —even supposedly sex-driven Tucker appreciates the smaller things.

You know, you shouldn’t always measure by _size_.

And he’s even more convicted in this, this what – rebellion against what should be dictated by logic? by biology? – when one morning, Tucker sitting on the end of bed contemplating this and Wash doing something with his gun or _whatever_ , Wash turns to look at him and he just simply does this – this act so tiny and insignificant – he just goes right up to Tucker and leans down, puts his hand on the side of Tucker’s neck and kisses his forehead.

A kiss so tender has never been more menacing nor final.

(That’s when he knows—

—soul-mates don’t matter).

\--

Tucker, truthfully, isn’t sure where it starts and begins. It’s obvious on Grif’s body where Simmons is stitched into him ( _they moulded fate themselves did they not_ ) and where the rest of his tanned body connected. But see, with Wash, he doesn’t know any of the lines, the rules, what he can and cannot do. He doesn’t know where Wash’s mark is. Doesn’t even know if he has one.

It’s not like with what they have they’re going to even mention it. And he doesn’t _want_ to know—he doesn’t want to know the words that’ll drag Wash away, maybe, how could somebody as strict as Wash deny the dictation of skin?

v.

Tucker learns Wash is much more of a revolutionary than he.

He’s in love, maybe.

vi.

He is.

He knows it properly here ( _love, oh love, it’s a funny thing_ ):

When Wash stands in the kitchen which is as bare as a military built room could be, staring at the MRE’s and seemingly doing math, Tucker comes up behind him and loops his arms around his waist.

He might even murmur the realisation into Wash’s back and he might even have it returned.

(That’s exactly how it happens).

Sex would have been the thing on Tucker’s mind except well, he’s never had this kind of epiphany before and this kind of warmth might be his favourite.

(It is).

No, seriously, ‘sappy’ isn’t even demeaning—Tucker’s ready to shower Wash with fucking Valentine’s gifts and chocolates and maybe kittens, because Wash has a thing for cats and he’ll fucking get an entire boatload of kittens if it meant Wash got some proper sleep without Tucker having to tell him he’s fine four times in the night.

Not like he minds being the one caring for Wash. You know, equality and trust and shit.

\--

Would they be boyfriends?

Maybe they’re not now, after the stupid-as-shit argument.

\--

Wash is way too diplomatic.

(Holy shit.

He fucking loves him).

He’s still scared. That it might mean nothing one day.

\--

The worst thing about caring so deeply is that when the battle comes—when the soldiers march in and you have nothing to control it, when it’s a battlefield and you run run run to maybe, _maybe_ hedge to save the day—is that your concern becomes your life, but that comes before theirs. And that’s the terrible thing. That’s the gruesome.

He’ll stand beside Wash and follow him fucking _anywhere_. That’s why he needs Wash to stand the fuck up and march over to the cave, fucking _get the fuck up_ he’s chanting.

He does. That gaze. That silent message. Tucker doesn’t know what he’s going to do in those seconds (infinity topples)—then— _then_ , Tucker’s heart _droops_. It _stops_.

“ _Freckles, shake!_ ”

He screams ‘No!’ and—

Blossoming and blooming. Endorphins mixed with adrenaline—it’s not a strict tie, it’s not quite an anchor but more like an affirmation of what he already had. Has. Present tense because _Tucker does not believe Agent Washington is dead._ Maybe on paper. Not now. Not ever.

 _Holy fuck_.

He doesn’t have long to think about it.

3.

‘No’ has never been more beautiful.

South was right—he does faint, but he’s also knocked out from behind. He’ll go 50/50 with her ghost.

Ghosts, after all, do exist. Or so Alpha said, that is.

vii.

“Wait,” Tucker says to Grif, “Simmons isn’t your—isn’t your, you know? Shit.”

Grif rolls his eyes, lazing on his bed in the Rebel quarters they’ve been gifted. “If he’d been my soul-mate I think I might have cried, Tucker. It woulda been _terrible_.”

“For real?”

There’s a shrug of his shoulders. “We’re not a _thing_ , Tucker. Stop looking at me like that.”

“So what’s yours, then?”

“’S on my calf. It’s _I love you,_ believe it or not.” He coughs. “Simmons’ is pretty bad. _The wallpaper is gold, I can’t believe it_. So bad.”

Tucker might ache a little for his Freelancer.

( _when the fuck did he become his freelancer_

_not that he minds)._

viii.

Epsilon finds out about his mark after their plan comes together, defying the ultimatum of Felix and Locus.

 _Huh_ , Epsilon remarks inwardly. _That’s a weird mark_.

 _Yeah_ , he thinks in response. _Already met them_.

_Wash? Holy shit, dude. That’s wacked._

_Thanks, Church._

_But I guess he did…come back for you. You really love him._

_We’re not doing this now._

Wash looks at him funny. “Is everything all right? I understand having an AI in can be intrusive—well, I know that best—but let me know.”

“I’m fine,” Tucker says. “He’s just wondering why it had to be you or something like that. Fucking asshole is the biggest hypocrite.”

There would be a smirk under Wash’s visor. “I’m sure he’s thrilled.”

“He’s just jealous.”

_Oh you are just such a dick._

“He won’t even pop out and give a monologue on it. What a baby.”

“ _Excuse me_ ,” he appears and says, bright blue. “I thought you and Wash were having a _moment_. I was trying to give you _space_.”

“I’m so ready to fucking punch you.”

“You just keep forgetting—”

“Are you three _done_?” Carolina interrupts, hands on hips. “We’re leaving. Now.”

That’s when Tucker realises Alpha might be coming back a little.

Epsilon says, _never knew you were such a sap, Tucker_.

 _It’s Wash’s fault_.

xi.

The next time Tucker passes out goes as so:

He is stabbed and he feels it go in. The blade pulses through the Kevlar suit where his aqua armour does not protect him; the knife is sharp. Felix’s visor, shifty even in its design, looks him up and down between entry to face to entry to face and there must be a devious grin under there, sick, sick, sick.

Epsilon is screaming, _oh you motherfucker I’m going to fucking murder that asshole holy shit I hope he fucking dies what an asshole I’ve never met somebody so assholey how dare he fucking do that_ — _okay Tucker I’ve got the footage don’t worry they’ll be okay trust me remember I’m really a hotshot now—_

It’s funny how ‘no’ was also his word for the Reds and Blues. He knows they’re not his soul-mates but he knows they’re his friends.

He doesn’t need biology to prove he’s linked to them, doesn’t need biology for him to make that charge forth.

The shred of hope he had, though, is snapped in half and shattered when Locus pops up like a mirage, it must be a joke, he shouldn’t be there, Wash should’ve—

Oh—but he’s not dead, from what he can absorb from their conversation. Right?

Wash isn’t dead.

4.

Before Wash goes down he knows Tucker is still out there and he doesn’t know what might be happening, doesn’t know if Tucker—who isn’t just a soul-mate, god, he chose him. Caboose was right.

He loved Tucker before he even knew Tucker might be the one with _no_ on his lips. That’s why when he goes down he’s a believer, a believer in _choice_.

x & 5.

It happens very quickly. Wash realises his careless tendency to dismiss death as something quite nothing is one he has not entertained since he knew—knew he loved Tucker, god—that’s why he’s not okay with himself going down.

(He doesn’t die.

Neither does Tucker).

He remembers when he thought the universe was crying—laughing—he realises he’s been blaming things when he should’ve, should’ve known that he had options all along.

He hopes when the ashes settle on Chorus he can show the little _no_ tucked on his collarbone.

Caboose had said to Tucker—in his even and so very Caboose tone, matter-of-fact—keeled over with Dr. Grey lecturing him, “I told you it was a nice name.”

*

g & s

When they get a house, much later, much, much, much later, Grif turns to Simmons and says, “The wallpaper is gold. I can’t believe it." He exhales a very angry breath. "Didn’t you fucking check? I hate gold.”

When Simmons says _I love you_ the screams _no fucking way you are not my soul-mate_ are heard in the court. He also hears Tucker howling with laughter from the front yard, and when Grif moves to glare outside the window at the lovely fucking couple with their fucking ginger cat circling them, he sees them with Wash’s arms twined around Tucker’s waist.

He opens the window and is ready to spit profanities at the smug, sappy pair but he doesn’t because he’s never seen Wash grin like that.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, as always.


End file.
